Bittersweet Surrender - Tora/Hiroto [oneshot]
Title: Bittersweet Surrender
Author: beyondtheremix
Genre: angst
Pairing: Tora/Hiroto
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: AU
Summary: "I just want you to be grateful for what we had while we had it."
Bittersweet Surrender
Hiroto had his head resting on the sticky tabletop, tips of his hair splayed out everywhere as he watched Tora drink. It was a curious occupation, the ritual-like pour and sip, pop and guzzle. He wasn’t sure what the point was, only that Tora didn’t like to drink alone.
Maybe you should stop now. That was what he was here for, wasn’t it?
But wordlessly he continued to stare, past the blurry close white of dirty plates and empty cans, obstructions and smoke. The older man’s eyes were shadowed by the dim light, but Hiroto knew they were probably bloodshot by now. Booze was cheap and most of the booths and tables were vacant. It wasn’t even noon but the pair had bundled up and tumbled into the nearest restaurant, hiding from the glare of a cold sun and slushy wet sidewalks.
What’s wrong?
Sliding to the side, Hiroto pressed his cheek flat against the table’s surface, arms and elbows coming up to clumsily displace uneaten food and chipped dishware, still watching. He wondered how much they had racked up on their tab, how long they had before the manager came and kicked them out. He wondered how it was that, even after they'd been apart for far too long, Tora could drag him back in like this again.
The older man had always had that effect on him, always been able to get Hiroto to do this, try that.
"Not like that."
The younger man looked up from his guitar in surprise. "What?"
"Well the song... For you, I wanted you to play it like this." Tora's fingers ran over his own fret board, gingerly pressing and plucking strings, coaxing his acoustic to life. "I want it to sound rich and maybe almost a little wavy due to being slightly out of tune, slightly detached." He said it rushed, explaining in words what he could better with his hands.
Hiroto bit his lip in concentration and moved his own fingers, rocking his instrument into doing what sounded right.
"Exactly."
Tora had smiled then. Music was easy to communicate, easy to manipulate fingers and strings, wind sounds and emit feeling. Licking already wet lips and feeling like he would need a real cup of water soon, Hiroto peered up from his bangs, hazy hazy eyes not as hazy as the hazy hazels staring right back at him.
"I think I'm drunk," Tora snorted, smiling softly and fiddling with a toothpick in his hand.
"I could have told you that," Hiroto murmured, face glued to the table and eyes trained on the black v-neck in his direct line of vision.
"Whatcha staring at?" That sharp angled face came into view again, lower lip jutted lazily and chin making itself comfortable on the plastic tabletop.
"You."
They weren't doing anything particular, hadn't planned on anything special. Tora had just showed up on his doorstep, invited himself in and Hiroto out. It was hard to say no. For old time's sake they were back in the local pub, requesting a table for two and receiving a booth for four like the aging manager knew they meant. She was a tough old lady who never forgot a face and knew when too much was really just enough. Right now maybe he needed a little more.
Everything was just like before. The dusty houseplants lined up near the glassy panes of the establishment, the cracked leather bar stools and shady booths, heavy food and foreign brand beers. Everything before Tora pushed a little too hard and Hiroto was forced to give up. He left. And every time Tora caught wind of some nameless someone - pressing Hiroto against a dingy brick wall, making one too many frequent house calls - he wriggled his way back in again.
It was difficult to give up on something that was always there. Someone.
"Did you want to talk about something?" Did you want to make sure I was alone again?
Eyes droopy with stress and much needed sleep, Hiroto toyed with a chopstick on the table, idle hands trying to distract himself from the other's ever piercing gaze, the fluttering it caused in his stomach, the exhaustion weighing heavy on his feet. There were many places he'd rather be right now. There were many times he felt like Tora was the only place he'd wind up with in the end.
The other man shrugged. "Just wanted to hang out with you. You don't call anymore."
Grumbling in his sleep, Tora fumbled around in the dark for his alarm only to realize it was too early for work and that it was in fact his phone beeping, blaring, and vibrating incessantly to life somewhere at the foot of his bed. Swearing, he heaved himself up.
"What?" His voiced cracked crossly, already hating whoever it was calling him at this ungodly hour.
Silence met him on the other end, faint faint breathing. Brows furrowing, Tora took a second to pull his mobile an inch away from his face and squint.
Hiroto.
All the curses he was about to fling across the line lodged themselves in his throat at the name burned across the screen.
"H-Hiroto?" He didn't dare to hope. Hope nothing, expect even less.
A suspiciously hiccupped giggle gurgled in reply, "Tiger," sweet and soft and breathed, "I miss you, you know?" It was a quiet whisper, Tora's long disbelieving silence, before the line went dead.
It happened often enough.
"I don't have much to call and talk to anyone about," Hiroto mumbled, both of their faces still plastered to the table's surface. "We don't talk much either."
"If you say so." You never call me when you're sober. Tora curled an arm up onto the table and rested his chin there instead.
There were circles under his eyes and he wore his hair differently, a different color. Tora noticed the newly pierced ears shimmering, hidden behind shoulder length locks. Hiroto had changed, he had made him change.
"Do you still play?" This game's not over yet, right?
They really didn't talk much, but they knew how to get in touch; fingers reluctant to delete each other's numbers now tapping against porcelain plates and sweaty glass cups. Hiroto tipped an empty shot glass over, a small clunking sound that went unnoticed in the slowly filling pub. Lunchtime. Tipsy by lunchtime.
"Yeah..." He dipped a finger into the remnants of amber liquor, sliding back and forth into the tiny cup and out glistening in the light.
Sudden and unexpected, but as natural as it had been before. Cheek on the table, Hiroto watched as Tora's hand wrapped around his wrist and tugged, rough fingertip slipping past pierced lips, caressed by a warm wet tongue that flicked and licked, nipped and the younger gasped, heat and adrenaline flooding beneath his skin and jerking his eyelids wide awake.
"Good," Tora smirked.
There was too much history between them, too much tension and release, knowing versus knowledge. Tora was too much to let go and Hiroto, Tora knew he wanted to keep Hiroto. He knew the younger man wanted something, needed something, but he didn't know what. Tora tried, but it always made things worse. And Hiroto didn't understand. He couldn't tell if Tora was a friend, if he just wanted to talk and make up. Or if he was an enemy, trying to break him down, isolate him, make sure he was lonely again, just like him. Hiroto was lonely. And that was why he was here, why he always ended up here, in Tora's flat, under demanding fingers and a prying gaze. He was weak.
"Don't," Tora hushed, drunk but sober enough to always know, always remember when those wet eyes hurt. He couldn't comfort, he didn't know how to make things right, how to ask for what used to be and what was wrong. There was his pride to fend for. He didn't know how to do anything more than take and demand. Take, take, take. Hot kisses that took. Touches that burned away. Sheets that hid the evidence.
Hiroto gasped against the teeth biting his lip, the hands gripping too hard it hurt. He wished Tora understood. He wasn't some pet to be caged, a prize to be coveted. And at the same time it was only during those jealous moments, lust crazed hurt, that he ever knew he was loved.
That he was wanted.
"I just want you to be grateful for what we had while we had it."
The first time on a string of times he'd given in.
"The brightest flames burn the quickest," Tora whispered, lighting another candle and coaxing Hiroto into the bath with a bottle of sherry and achingly tender fingers.
He shouldn't be here. Leaning against the tub's side, Hiroto thought of his empty apartment, the unfolded laundry and abandoned rentals. He shouldn't be here.
But, "I always thought we were the sun." Regret tinged his words, stomach twisting longing.
"Even stars have to die sometime."
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame, shame on me.
Eyes stinging in the morning light, Hiroto peeled back the sheets. It was too hot in bed. Tora had always liked his rooms warm; that and the added body heat had always made Hiroto too hot, uncomfortable and sweaty. But the older man always talked him out of lowering the room temperature, talked him out of everything and convinced him nothing.
Sliding off a thumping chest and out from between sticky warm thighs, he crawled up to a pillow and curled his back to Tora.
"I want it to sound rich and maybe almost a little wavy due to being slightly out of tune, slightly detached."
They were always slightly out of tune. Tora never tried to fix it, he wanted to be detached, reserved when it mattered, and that hurt.
"I want it to sound rich." I want, I want, I want. The words echoed through Hiroto's thoughts. But I want.
Rustling sheets alerted him before strong arms were once again wrapping themselves around his waist, a burrowing nose taking what it wanted. Warm breath on his neck, Hiroto swallowed the bitter pill and smiled a small tilt of the lips. His head hurt. He didn't know if that was because of his newly acquired hangover. Or Tora.
Maybe he just needed to accept it.
Tora didn't know how change.
And this was all he would ever have left.
A/N:
For aliceinfiction.
Some lines recommended by tingedwords from here.
Archive
Author: beyondtheremix
Genre: angst
Pairing: Tora/Hiroto
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: AU
Summary: "I just want you to be grateful for what we had while we had it."
Bittersweet Surrender
Hiroto had his head resting on the sticky tabletop, tips of his hair splayed out everywhere as he watched Tora drink. It was a curious occupation, the ritual-like pour and sip, pop and guzzle. He wasn’t sure what the point was, only that Tora didn’t like to drink alone.
Maybe you should stop now. That was what he was here for, wasn’t it?
But wordlessly he continued to stare, past the blurry close white of dirty plates and empty cans, obstructions and smoke. The older man’s eyes were shadowed by the dim light, but Hiroto knew they were probably bloodshot by now. Booze was cheap and most of the booths and tables were vacant. It wasn’t even noon but the pair had bundled up and tumbled into the nearest restaurant, hiding from the glare of a cold sun and slushy wet sidewalks.
What’s wrong?
Sliding to the side, Hiroto pressed his cheek flat against the table’s surface, arms and elbows coming up to clumsily displace uneaten food and chipped dishware, still watching. He wondered how much they had racked up on their tab, how long they had before the manager came and kicked them out. He wondered how it was that, even after they'd been apart for far too long, Tora could drag him back in like this again.
The older man had always had that effect on him, always been able to get Hiroto to do this, try that.
"Not like that."
The younger man looked up from his guitar in surprise. "What?"
"Well the song... For you, I wanted you to play it like this." Tora's fingers ran over his own fret board, gingerly pressing and plucking strings, coaxing his acoustic to life. "I want it to sound rich and maybe almost a little wavy due to being slightly out of tune, slightly detached." He said it rushed, explaining in words what he could better with his hands.
Hiroto bit his lip in concentration and moved his own fingers, rocking his instrument into doing what sounded right.
"Exactly."
Tora had smiled then. Music was easy to communicate, easy to manipulate fingers and strings, wind sounds and emit feeling. Licking already wet lips and feeling like he would need a real cup of water soon, Hiroto peered up from his bangs, hazy hazy eyes not as hazy as the hazy hazels staring right back at him.
"I think I'm drunk," Tora snorted, smiling softly and fiddling with a toothpick in his hand.
"I could have told you that," Hiroto murmured, face glued to the table and eyes trained on the black v-neck in his direct line of vision.
"Whatcha staring at?" That sharp angled face came into view again, lower lip jutted lazily and chin making itself comfortable on the plastic tabletop.
"You."
They weren't doing anything particular, hadn't planned on anything special. Tora had just showed up on his doorstep, invited himself in and Hiroto out. It was hard to say no. For old time's sake they were back in the local pub, requesting a table for two and receiving a booth for four like the aging manager knew they meant. She was a tough old lady who never forgot a face and knew when too much was really just enough. Right now maybe he needed a little more.
Everything was just like before. The dusty houseplants lined up near the glassy panes of the establishment, the cracked leather bar stools and shady booths, heavy food and foreign brand beers. Everything before Tora pushed a little too hard and Hiroto was forced to give up. He left. And every time Tora caught wind of some nameless someone - pressing Hiroto against a dingy brick wall, making one too many frequent house calls - he wriggled his way back in again.
It was difficult to give up on something that was always there. Someone.
"Did you want to talk about something?" Did you want to make sure I was alone again?
Eyes droopy with stress and much needed sleep, Hiroto toyed with a chopstick on the table, idle hands trying to distract himself from the other's ever piercing gaze, the fluttering it caused in his stomach, the exhaustion weighing heavy on his feet. There were many places he'd rather be right now. There were many times he felt like Tora was the only place he'd wind up with in the end.
The other man shrugged. "Just wanted to hang out with you. You don't call anymore."
Grumbling in his sleep, Tora fumbled around in the dark for his alarm only to realize it was too early for work and that it was in fact his phone beeping, blaring, and vibrating incessantly to life somewhere at the foot of his bed. Swearing, he heaved himself up.
"What?" His voiced cracked crossly, already hating whoever it was calling him at this ungodly hour.
Silence met him on the other end, faint faint breathing. Brows furrowing, Tora took a second to pull his mobile an inch away from his face and squint.
Hiroto.
All the curses he was about to fling across the line lodged themselves in his throat at the name burned across the screen.
"H-Hiroto?" He didn't dare to hope. Hope nothing, expect even less.
A suspiciously hiccupped giggle gurgled in reply, "Tiger," sweet and soft and breathed, "I miss you, you know?" It was a quiet whisper, Tora's long disbelieving silence, before the line went dead.
It happened often enough.
"I don't have much to call and talk to anyone about," Hiroto mumbled, both of their faces still plastered to the table's surface. "We don't talk much either."
"If you say so." You never call me when you're sober. Tora curled an arm up onto the table and rested his chin there instead.
There were circles under his eyes and he wore his hair differently, a different color. Tora noticed the newly pierced ears shimmering, hidden behind shoulder length locks. Hiroto had changed, he had made him change.
"Do you still play?" This game's not over yet, right?
They really didn't talk much, but they knew how to get in touch; fingers reluctant to delete each other's numbers now tapping against porcelain plates and sweaty glass cups. Hiroto tipped an empty shot glass over, a small clunking sound that went unnoticed in the slowly filling pub. Lunchtime. Tipsy by lunchtime.
"Yeah..." He dipped a finger into the remnants of amber liquor, sliding back and forth into the tiny cup and out glistening in the light.
Sudden and unexpected, but as natural as it had been before. Cheek on the table, Hiroto watched as Tora's hand wrapped around his wrist and tugged, rough fingertip slipping past pierced lips, caressed by a warm wet tongue that flicked and licked, nipped and the younger gasped, heat and adrenaline flooding beneath his skin and jerking his eyelids wide awake.
"Good," Tora smirked.
There was too much history between them, too much tension and release, knowing versus knowledge. Tora was too much to let go and Hiroto, Tora knew he wanted to keep Hiroto. He knew the younger man wanted something, needed something, but he didn't know what. Tora tried, but it always made things worse. And Hiroto didn't understand. He couldn't tell if Tora was a friend, if he just wanted to talk and make up. Or if he was an enemy, trying to break him down, isolate him, make sure he was lonely again, just like him. Hiroto was lonely. And that was why he was here, why he always ended up here, in Tora's flat, under demanding fingers and a prying gaze. He was weak.
"Don't," Tora hushed, drunk but sober enough to always know, always remember when those wet eyes hurt. He couldn't comfort, he didn't know how to make things right, how to ask for what used to be and what was wrong. There was his pride to fend for. He didn't know how to do anything more than take and demand. Take, take, take. Hot kisses that took. Touches that burned away. Sheets that hid the evidence.
Hiroto gasped against the teeth biting his lip, the hands gripping too hard it hurt. He wished Tora understood. He wasn't some pet to be caged, a prize to be coveted. And at the same time it was only during those jealous moments, lust crazed hurt, that he ever knew he was loved.
That he was wanted.
"I just want you to be grateful for what we had while we had it."
The first time on a string of times he'd given in.
"The brightest flames burn the quickest," Tora whispered, lighting another candle and coaxing Hiroto into the bath with a bottle of sherry and achingly tender fingers.
He shouldn't be here. Leaning against the tub's side, Hiroto thought of his empty apartment, the unfolded laundry and abandoned rentals. He shouldn't be here.
But, "I always thought we were the sun." Regret tinged his words, stomach twisting longing.
"Even stars have to die sometime."
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame, shame on me.
Eyes stinging in the morning light, Hiroto peeled back the sheets. It was too hot in bed. Tora had always liked his rooms warm; that and the added body heat had always made Hiroto too hot, uncomfortable and sweaty. But the older man always talked him out of lowering the room temperature, talked him out of everything and convinced him nothing.
Sliding off a thumping chest and out from between sticky warm thighs, he crawled up to a pillow and curled his back to Tora.
"I want it to sound rich and maybe almost a little wavy due to being slightly out of tune, slightly detached."
They were always slightly out of tune. Tora never tried to fix it, he wanted to be detached, reserved when it mattered, and that hurt.
"I want it to sound rich." I want, I want, I want. The words echoed through Hiroto's thoughts. But I want.
Rustling sheets alerted him before strong arms were once again wrapping themselves around his waist, a burrowing nose taking what it wanted. Warm breath on his neck, Hiroto swallowed the bitter pill and smiled a small tilt of the lips. His head hurt. He didn't know if that was because of his newly acquired hangover. Or Tora.
Maybe he just needed to accept it.
Tora didn't know how change.
And this was all he would ever have left.
A/N:
For aliceinfiction.
Some lines recommended by tingedwords from here.
Archive